


Eggnog

by mellish



Category: Death Note
Genre: Addiction, Christmas, Dessert & Sweets, Gen, Holidays, copycats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-27
Updated: 2008-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-29 07:07:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellish/pseuds/mellish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>L, B, and Christmas vacation. L does not appreciate copycats.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eggnog

**Author's Note:**

> Written based off a prompt by x_ghost_x, for Week #39 - Christmas at dn_contest on lj. Set three or four years before Another Note, but you don't need to know anything about the book to read this story. Messes with canon.

L’s visit to the Whammy House for the holidays is unplanned and therefore unannounced. That does not stop him from being mildly suspicious when no one answers the door, despite him jabbing his finger at the bell every half-minute. He is starting to think it was an oversight on his part to have gotten off the cab so hastily, not noticing how dimly lit the orphanage was, how devoid of youthful noises. Snowflakes have started to drift down in earnest, and he’s beginning to realize that shirts, even long-sleeved ones, aren’t too comfortable in negative degrees.

He’s deciding on the most efficient way to break into the house (one _must_ know the criminal mind if one wants to pursue this profession, after all) – which will most likely require some heating, he thinks sorrowfully, judging by its physical appearance. It comes as a surprise when the door suddenly swings open, revealing a pair of pitch black eyes.

“Hello, L.”

He stares. The dark eyes stare back at him, and he realizes they would almost be a mirror image of his, if not for the fact that they were wide with youth. Even the deep bags under them mimic his lack of sleep, line for line. He has to blink, and shake the chill away from his head, before he understands what is happening and manages to reply, “Oh hello, B. Where is everyone else?” – and quickly, before the boy can answer that – “Can I come in? Of course I can. Excuse me.” He gracefully squeezes his way past B, into the blissfully warm interior of the orphanage. The child lets him. L notes that he is wearing a white, long-sleeved shirt, and faded denims. He bites down on one thumb when L glances at his face, studying L as L studies him.

“Close the door, it’s cold,” the detective finally says, not trying to disguise his fatigue.

“Sure, L.” It’s no secret that B enjoys saying that name. Roger once sent L a message reporting, with much amusement, how he would often hear the boy chanting it under his breath as he passed. The idea gave L a strange feeling in his stomach – he couldn’t place it, but was pretty certain it wasn’t flattery.

The drafts stop blowing in, and they stare at each other in the warmth that follows. L keeps his face carefully impassive. B is smiling, but his face may have been blank, for all its emptiness.

“The others are at a ski park three hours away. Roger took them. I told him I felt sick and didn’t want to go, and anyway, I could watch the house.”

“Why would you want to watch the house?” _Alone_ , L thinks.

“Because I knew you would be coming.” Now B’s blank smile stretches a little wider. “And I wanted to wait for you.”

He doesn’t ask how B knows, or why B would be thoughtful like that – if being thoughtful is his intention, anyway. He knows the boy is clever enough not to answer when he doesn’t want to, and it makes him proud as well as uncomfortable. It’s not fear, but L is aware that B is the only one who can make him feel frozen like this. In some ways L thinks the boy is frightening and not entirely human, but L has a notion that telling him so could be potentially disastrous. Besides, B is only a child. L shrugs, and clicks on some lights. “You could’ve turned these on.”

“What’s that?” B ignores him and points to the plastic sack the detective is holding. That’s another thing B does, which no other Whammy Kid would dare – skirt questions, dodge queries. Ignore L.

“I got presents for everyone.” At the airport, right before he came, in a sudden spasm of generosity. L isn’t very fond of kids, but he respects his roots, and occasionally feels the need to spend his fortune on something other than chocolate. He bought assorted puzzles, brain teasers, and crossword books. He might have purchased chocolates instead, but he didn’t trust himself not to finish the lot before he arrived. “You can have first pick.”

B looks at him with his eyes nearly bulging, in what is probably his own way of rapt admiration. The boy drops to his knees and rummages through the sack. He pulls out a blank black puzzle. 1000 pieces. L quirks his mouth as B lifts his head.

“Can I have this?”

His accent is changing, too. L could place his origins before, if somewhat vaguely; now he has no idea, and feels that in doing so, he has made himself somewhat more vulnerable. “Of course.”

“Thank you.” B thumps away down a corridor to what is probably his room. L traces a hand across the wall as he walks to the Christmas tree in the corner. It’s poorly decorated, the ornaments mismatched and hung all over the place, instead of being evenly spaced out. The few gifts under the tree are for Whammy and Roger; the children here have no parents or relatives to receive anything from. There are a few packages for L, Eraldo Coil, and Danuve too. He picks at their ribbons, not really interested, until he hears B thumping back. Then he notices the boy’s posture for the first time: B is stooping, his torso leaning over his legs, loping along with his hands in his pockets. He’s wearing a winter coat, now, beaten-up and grayish. There’s a matching coat over his shoulder, slightly newer-looking.

“Can we play, L? Let’s play. I got bored waiting for you.”

“Play what?”

“In the snow. Look at how many inches we got. I don’t know why they’d go to a ski park with all this snow here.” He flings the coat at L, and the detective catches it with one hand. He watches B blink up at him hopefully; the false action doesn’t suit his innocent face. The boy takes a deep breath. “Please?”

L opens his mouth to say yes, then thinks better of it. He doesn’t want to be too accommodating, so he shrugs instead, for what he feels is the hundredth time that day, and pulls on the coat. They take the back door to the yard, which is thick with snow and still terribly cold, although it’s bearable now, with the coat. B starts rolling up a big snowball, and when it rises past the middle of his shin, L starts to help him. They roll it up to the big tree in the corner of the yard, breathing heavily in the cold air. It seems like a good base. L walks back and begins to roll up a ball for a chest, and B says, “I’ll go get some props.”

L is already patting the snowman’s head into place when B returns, with a top hat, a carrot, a tin of assorted buttons, and a fraying scarf. “And there are limbs for it buried around here somewhere.” He kicks around the snow-covered roots of the trees until he finds the pile of branches – something he had obviously set aside days before. Possibly even before the snow started. They get to work accessorizing him.

“Tell me something, B.” L stops, uncertain about how to phrase the question. He decides to be direct about it. When did he ever have to be delicate with interrogations? “Did you murder A?”

“If you’re wondering whether I watched him die, yes, I did.” B rubs his palms together, an act that might have been cute, if not for his eerie words. “But he killed himself. Honest.”

L is quiet. He pats the snowman’s stomach flatter, deciding that a fat Frosty won’t do. “I believe you,” he says, after a moment. B would gain nothing from lying.

“I knew you would.” B is inserting Frosty’s left arm, attempting to hold the branch with just his thumb and pointer finger. He keeps dropping it.

“You know a lot of things.” L isn’t able to keep his thoughts out of his tone – that B’s skill could be a good thing. Or deadly. “You might surpass me one day.”

B says nothing as he jams the stick-arm in, using his whole hand – but his cheeks are glowing, lighting up his pale face. “You know, L, that statement makes me very happy. Even if we both know I’m incapable now. Anyway, you’ve still got a lot of time.” He stops, and stabs the carrot into the snowman’s face, “It might not be enough, though.”

“A riddle?” L is too intrigued to be bothered by B’s cheekiness – the air around them is suddenly much colder.

“A truth.” The boy flops down on the snow abruptly and flaps his arms and legs. “That’s what these guys believe in, right?” He rolls away, sinking to his knees and wrists in the snow. Then he draws a halo above his misshapen snow angel.

“Theology is a different study altogether, and one I’m no expert in.” L decides the more questions he asks, the worse the answers he receives. He fixes the hat on Frosty’s head, and sticks in the button eyes for good measure. “What you said sounds a bit ominous. Should I be worried?”

B turns to look at him, wrapping the scarf around the snowman’s head very purposefully. He pulls it tight, so tight that L worries the snowman’s head might pop off. “No,” he says finally. “Right now, you’re invincible.”

L doesn’t think that’s the entire truth, but he doesn’t want to know the rest of it. If anyone will extend beyond him, it certainly won’t be his back-up. He’ll make certain of that. L rubs his palms against his cheeks to warm them, shivering when it makes his whole face colder instead. “I’m starting to turn into sherbet out here,” he states. “I’m going back inside.”

“That’s fine,” B answers pleasantly. He gets up, and they start across the yard together. “Thank you for playing with me, we made a pretty good snowman.” He blows on his hands; it suddenly dawns on both of them that it was silly to have forgotten mittens. B continues, “There’s eggnog in the kitchen. I can fix it for you if you like.”

“That would be nice,” L replies, truthfully. Roger’s eggnog is wonderful, with only half the brandy and twice the cream. They stomp their boots on the welcome mat before pushing back into the house.

“Do you want sweet ham too, L?”

“No, thank you.”

“Chocolate muffins?”

“Yes, please.”

L squats on a kitchen chair, settling the sack of toys in front of him. He sifts through it, deciding whether he should label each one, or just let the children choose for themselves. From the corner of his eye he watches B bustle around the kitchen, sticking the muffins into the toaster and plopping ice into two glasses of eggnog. B carries it all back to L, who has given up sorting the presents, and is picking at his lip thoughtfully instead. The boy sets the tray with the meal down and sits across from him, carrying his eggnog. He pulls up his knees, resting first his fingers, then his chin on them. L notices that B’s hair is sticking up, and wonders if it’s natural. He decides it’s better to find out for certain.

“B,” L says in his most impressive monotone. “I do not appreciate copycats.”

There’s a pause. Then -

“Neither do I,” B answers simply. He smiles serenely at his goal, his idol, his mentor, mouth curving just at the edges, eyes huge and totally sure, with a sudden tinge of red in them – L stops himself from jolting with surprise, and blinks. The hint of red from B’s pupils is gone, and all he sees is B (back-up, beyond, whatever it stands for), so tragically similar to him. Suddenly he’s staring at a younger version of himself, too brilliant and broken, destined for great things and nothings; but even he doesn’t remember being so twisted at that age.

L sighs. “As long as we’re in agreement, then.”

“Always.” B sips his own glass of eggnog, and L has a suspicion that he’s overly fond of sugar now, too. “I’m so glad I got to see you, L. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” the greatest detective in the world answers, and for the first time that day lets his face ease into a smile. This isn’t exactly what L would call _merry_ , but he decides that there are worse ways to spend the holidays than in one’s home with a glass of eggnog. Frosty’s outside, the Whammy House is obviously serving its purpose, and there are chocolate muffins to be eaten. This will suffice.


End file.
